“How’s the deer hunting this year?” asked the new arrival at camp importantly, as he leaned on his shiny new gun and looked proudly down at his well pressed, unspotted hunting suit.
    The old guide looked him over slowly before he drawled, “Pretty good. Pretty good. And I’ve seen the tracks of a wamp around here lately, too, and that means more deer than ever. Yes. sir!”
    “The wamp?” asked the newcomer politely.
    “Every deer hunter knows about the Wamp,” replied the guide witheringly, “He’s about the size of a coon, with a gray body, shaped like a salt sack and a hollow tail with a salt shaker on the end of it.”
    “A salt shatter?” repeated the tenderfoot doubtfully.
    “Sure. Don’t you know how crazy deer are about salt. Well, the wamp goes around shaking salt at the roots of trees every few miles, and the deer lick it up and run to tell their friends about it.”
    The hunter looked at the guide thoughtfully, but the old woodsman, with solemn face, was looking out across the bronzed woods, as though at any minute one of his weird animals might come slinking in between the I tall trees, or peer at them from behind a flaming bush.